


Anything for the Audience

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Friends to Lovers, everlark, sweet and fluffy, teenaged everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My entry for Prompts in Panem April 2015, Day one 'Cheeks' (To begin this round you should test your ability to depict love's most innocent moments: a father holding his child for the first time, a first kiss, or after.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything for the Audience

"No."

"Please?"

"No!"

"Ah come on, please?"

"I said no!" I flop back on the worn couch in my family room and stare at the ceiling, silently willing him to just drop it, but a mop of blond curls appears above me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut because I know what comes next, that puppy dog face I can never say no to.

"Katniss," he whines, drawing out the two syllables into a plea. I can already feel my resistance slipping.

Peeta Mellark and I have known each other since kindergarten, but we became best friends when we were eleven. My father died that year, and my sister and I moved in with our uncle, Haymitch. His backyard backs onto the Mellark family yard, separated only by a rickety wooden fence. Peeta and I have shared a thousand adventures in the five years since, and almost all of them have been his idea. I've been his wrestling opponent, his dance partner, even his painting muse, but what he's asking for today is not an 'adventure' that I'm willing to join him on.

As I stare at the back of my eyelids I feel him grab my braid, and obnoxiously use the frayed end to tickle my nose, my cheek. Reaching out blindly I somehow manage to clip him on the chin with my hand and knock him off balance and he collapses half on top of me. My eyes fly open and I'm staring into brilliant blue eyes, sparking with mischief, his freckle-spattered nose almost touching mine. His answering laugh rumbles through my chest where we are pressed together, his breath racing across my lips. My heart rate speeds up in response and I can feel a blush heating my cheeks, but Peeta simply rolls off of me, landing on the floor with another chuckle.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, when I went from seeing Peeta as my buddy, my partner in crime, to seeing him as a boy I'm hopelessly attracted to, that I think I'm falling in love with. I've tried to ignore it, I really have, but as the weeks and months pass it just gets worse and worse. I've become a little fixated on his eyelashes, golden in the sunlight and so long they brush his cheeks when he blinks. His strong jaw and the pale stubble that unevenly dots it sometimes, his full lips that quirk up in a lopsided smile when he's truly happy. Peeta is beautiful. He's also smart, and goofy, and the sweetest person I know, next to my sister Prim.

Problem is he only sees me as his friend. As that scowling, grumpy, frequently annoying girl over the fence too, maybe, but mostly his best friend. And I can't risk losing his friendship over a crush. For the past five years he's been my rock, my hope, my dandelion in the spring. My parents are gone, one to death and one to mental illness, and my uncle provides the necessities of life but little else. Peeta fills in the gaps in my heart. Peeta reminds me that life can be good. He and Prim are the only ones who matter to me, and losing either would leave me damaged beyond repair.

"Nice left hook Everdeen," he teases from beside me, and I shift so that I can look down on him. For a moment we just smile at each other. It's these quiet moments, the ones that make my heart pound and my stomach flutter, that make me think maybe someday he'll feel the same way about me as I do about him. But today is not that day. He reaches up to grasp my braid again and gives it a swift yank, laughing when I scowl at him.

"Since you nearly knocked me out you owe me!" He's gleeful in his flawed logic. "Please, please help me with my drama project Katniss?" He's wearing me down, and he knows it. Then he plays his trump card. "Remember how I helped you with your music video? Seems to me we got an A+." He intentionally emphasizes 'we'. Though the project was mine alone his assistance was what pushed my grade that high. I'd written a perfectly serviceable, if perhaps a little dull, song; he'd spent nearly two weeks creating gorgeous animations to accompany the music. The finished video presentation I'd submitted had earned the A+ and an invitation to a prestigious multimedia exhibition in the Capitol. At the time he'd deferred any credit for his part to me, that he's bringing it up now means he really wants my help. I sigh.

"What do I have to do?" If he notices my less-than-thrilled tone of voice he doesn't show it. Instead he whoops, and jumps up off the floor quickly enough to almost bash into me.

"It's super simple, I promise. Mr. Heavensbee is going to assign me a random two person skit and we'll act it out, just as easy as that!"

"Act it out just for him?" I ask, even though I know better. We both attend the Panem School of the Arts, and Mr. Heavensbee, the head of the drama department who is completely over the top in everything he does, loves a good show. 'Anything for the audience' is his motto. Peeta flushes.

"Ah, no, it'll be in front of the school." I cringe, even though I was expecting that. I hate performing in front of people, and I'm a terrible actress. At least for the performances I've done in my music concentration I can either blend in with the rest of the choir or hide behind my guitar. Standing on the stage in front of the entire school is going to be excruciating. I groan loudly.

"Peeta," I whine. "You know I'm a terrible actress! Why don't you ask Delly, or Madge?"

"I don't want Delly or Madge, I want you, Katniss." Even though I know he only means that he wants me to help I can't suppress the shiver that runs down my spine at his words. Damn him!

"Fine," I mutter, "but I expect cheese buns at every rehearsal." It's not much of a demand, Peeta makes me cheese buns at least once a week anyway, he knows they're my favourite.

—

Peeta catches up to me in the hall between second and third period and thrusts a slim red pamphlet with 'The Red Coat' embossed on the cover into my hands. "What's this?" I question.

"Our script, Heavensbee handed them out at the end of class, I haven't had a chance to look at it yet but I figured I'd give you yours since you have early lunch." It's been the worst part of this year, Peeta and I don't share the same lunch period for the first time ever. Since September I've been stuck eating my own lackluster bologna sandwiches instead of pilfering Peeta's bakery treats. He's pretty good about sneaking me a cookie or some other goody during the classes we do have together, but it isn't the same. He tugs my braid then lumbers down the hall towards the gym without another word, his heavy footfalls echoing even above the din of the other students milling around. I stuff the script in my binder and head for AP biology.

I pretty much forget about the script until I'm pulling my lunch out of my locker and my binder goes flying. Typical, really. I can walk the fence in our yard, climb trees like a squirrel, but I can't keep my books from falling out of my locker every time I open it. Maybe if I wasn't so messy they'd stay put, but that's a problem for future Katniss. Right now I just want to get out of this building so I shove the binder back in my locker, and then take my sandwich, the notebook I write my lyrics in, and the script outside to my favourite bench, under a gnarled old apple tree. No one who I particularly enjoy talking with has the same lunch period as I do this semester, so I spend almost all of my lunch periods like this; composing new songs, listening to my iPod, or just daydreaming.

The script is tiny, only five pages long. I'm relieved; it's easy enough for me to memorize dialogue but a five page play should only be mean few minutes on stage. I can handle that. But two pages in I nearly choke on my tuna sandwich. There's kissing! There's a lot of kissing!

Holy shit.

I can't do it, can I? I have fantasized about kissing Peeta a thousand times, but there is just no way I can do this. For one thing, I've never kissed a boy before, and the idea of my first kiss being an act in front of the prying eyes of all of Panem High fills me with an odd ache. Yet I'm fascinated at the same time, an iron-clad excuse to kiss Peeta, to see if those plump lips are as soft as I've imagined? And if it didn't go well I could simply say 'it was all an act' and we could go back to our easy, uncomplicated friendship.

I tuck the script into my notebook as I'm seized with an uncomfortable thought: what if Peeta changes his mind about partnering with me once he reads the script? What if he's disgusted by the idea of kissing me? My gut twists with that idea, and I push the whole mess out of my mind. Peeta and I only have one class together this afternoon; I have until then to figure what to do.

—-

When I get to history class Peeta is waiting for me just outside the classroom door. He's looking at the ground with an unreadable expression.

"Hey," I greet him and he jumps, as if he didn't hear me approach.

"Katniss," he smiles, but it's a strained smile, nothing like the genuine crooked smiles he usually saves for me. It's his fake smile, and it makes me uneasy. I move towards the class but he grabs my arm to stop me. "Did, uh, did you have a chance to look at the script?"

"Oh, uh, no, I left it in my biology binder." I have no idea what possesses me to lie to him, but the way his expression brightens makes my stomach sink.

"Okay, that's fine actually because, uh, I'm just going to ask one of the other guys in the class to do it with me. I know you weren't thrilled with the idea to begin with anyway, so it makes sense to team up with somebody else from class." I swear I can feel my heart breaking. Of course he's not going to want to suck face with a girl he thinks of as one of his brothers. I try to arrange my face into an impassive mask but probably only succeed in scowling.

"Sure, I'll grab the script for you after school," I mumble, then pull my arm away and breeze into the class without sparing him another glance. I'm kind of irrationally furious. Peeta is popular, and while it hasn't ever seemed to bother him hanging out with me I can imagine that kissing me in front of the school would be hugely embarrassing to him. The other guys in school clearly don't consider me the kissing type.

I manage to ignore him all class, though I can feel his eyes on me, and I bolt as soon as we're dismissed, not giving him a chance to catch me.

After the last bell I head to my locker, throwing my books haphazardly into my bag before storming away. I'm still fuming, so I don't notice them until I'm nearly on top of them; Peeta and Cashmere, the most beautiful girl in our school, leaning against a bank of lockers, chatting, their heads so close together that the golden strands mingle. He's smiling widely at her and her tinkling giggle fills the hall. Well I guess I know who his new partner is. Though Peeta and I have walked home together pretty much every single day for the past two and a half years I leave the school and go directly home, alone.

—

I'm not surprised when he shows up on my porch 45 minutes later. I've been sitting on the railing, watching the cars drive by and feeling sorry for myself.

"You didn't wait for me?" His expression is genuinely perplexed, but I'm not in the mood to play games.

"You were too busy with your new partner to notice me," I say. Maybe it's unfair of me to be this pissed off at him, but the hours I've spent thinking about his reticence to be seen kissing the likes of me have wound me up tight as a drum. He looks even more confused.

"My what? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Cashmere," I scowl. "You were pretty cozy together. Practicing for your big scene?"

His face falls. "So you did read the script," he says flatly. His reaction makes me even angrier.

"Yeah, I read it. You were so anxious for my help until you figured out what it would involve. Then you couldn't wait to replace me with someone who doesn't disgust you!" I wrap my arms tightly around me and stare at my feet, willing myself to hold onto the anger, this anger that barricades my true feelings from him. Because what I really feel is hurt.

The silence between us stretches out so long that I begin to fidget. When I finally chance a glance up Peeta is staring at me with his brows furrowed. "Do you really think that, Katniss?" His voice is so soft that I have to strain to hear him over the traffic that flows down my street.

"What am I supposed to think, Peeta? Obviously you'd rather be kissing Cashmere, or Glimmer, or Clove. I'm just your gawky, plain best friend. I'm not special like those girls. They're the ones you want. Not me."

"Katniss," he starts again, but I can't listen any more. My eyes are burning with tears that threaten to spill out and I will not let him see me upset over a stupid play that I didn't want to be part of anyway.

"It's fine, Peeta, I get it. I need to go now, Prim has homework." It's a lie, Prim isn't even home, she has middle school choir on Mondays after school, and Peeta knows that but he doesn't call me on it. I jump off the railing and reach for my bag, rifling through it to extract the script, which I toss in his direction. It lands at his feet but he doesn't pick it up, doesn't move at all. He just continues to stare at me. With a shake of my head I try to push past him, but he grabs my arms and spins me around to face him.

In spite of my anger the feeling of his hands on my arms, of his solid body only inches from me makes my knees weak. Damn him. His jaw tightens and releases as he internally debates what he's going to say to me, but I'm really in no mood for his pity, and I try to pull away. He tightens his grip, almost to the point of pain.

"You are the least observant person I have ever met, Katniss," he growls, and I bristle, but before I can yell at him he continues, his face so close to mine that I can see the deep navy ring that surrounds his sky blue irises. "I didn't want to kiss you for an audience, because when I finally do get to kiss you I want it to be real." I stare at him uncomprehending and he stares back, his eyes sad. Then before my brain catches up to what he said, he releases my arms, spins on his heels, and walks away, the script still lying on the porch.

—

"Real." The word keeps running through my head all afternoon and far into the evening. I find it doodled in the margins of my homework. It reverberates in my mind while I make Prim noodles for dinner. It haunts me. Once Prim has been tucked into bed I sit at the kitchen table and flip through the script again. It's a tiny thing, only 150 lines, but it feels as heavy as a tome.

I can't let this tiny little red booklet destroy us.

There's a light drizzle falling when I sneak out the back door into the moonlight. Scaling the fence between our yards is second nature to me; I've done it so many thousands of times that I don't even think before I've landed on the other side. Peeta's bedroom is at the front of his house, but when I walk around the light is off.

"Come to finish me off, sweetheart?" I jump at the sound of his voice; I was so fixated on the window that I didn't notice Peeta sitting on the curb in the rain, under the street lamp. I lower myself to sit beside him, the damp concrete soaking through my jeans. He's been out here long enough that his hair is saturated, the curls sticking to his forehead. He looks sad and forlorn and my heart aches.

"How long, Peeta?" I ask him quietly. He drops his head and lets out a strained laugh.

"As long as I can remember. I noticed you on the first day of school, Katniss. I haven't stopped noticing you since. I've had a crush on you since before I even knew what that meant."

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

He shrugs. "I wanted to. So many times I wanted to. But I was afraid. I'm still afraid. You're so fierce and independent, and I thought if I told you how I felt…" He trails off, but I understand.

"That's why I never told you," I admit. His head snaps up.

"What?"

I laugh a little at his expression. "I've had a crush on you for years, Peeta, but I figured you didn't think of me that way, and I didn't want to ruin what we have. You're my best friend, I need you in my life, and I couldn't stand the thought of ruining that, so I tried to ignore it. But seeing you with Cashmere today…"

"We were just talking," he says. "She was asking my advice on her script for drama class. I don't feel anything for Cashmere. There's only one girl who has ever caught my eye, Katniss."

My breathing picks up; he's looking at me so intently, and when his gaze flits down to my lips my breath catches. His hand comes up to cradle my cheek and I catch the faint scent of cinnamon that always seems to cling to him, mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. Then his lips descend on mine, soft and warm and wet. I melt into the kiss; as many times as I'd imagined this moment I couldn't possibly have envisioned how perfect it would feel, how his mouth and mine move together as if they were made for each other. When his tongue shyly pokes out to trace my bottom lip I make an involuntary squeak in the back of my throat and he pulls back, eyes wide and questioning.

I answer by leaning in and kissing him again.

We sit in the rain, kissing and tasting and testing until we're both soaked to the bone and shivering. He walks me home, the long way around the block, our hands twined together. When we reach my porch we kiss again, our hands innocently mapping cheeks and shoulders and waists. I'm breathless and giddy when we finally break apart.

"Peeta," I smirk, staring up at his flushed cheeks and swollen lips with equal parts desire and pride. "I'd like to do that play with you, if you still want me." His answering smile is as radiant as the sun.

"I only want you, Katniss. And think of the fun we'll have practicing together!"

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow doubt that anyone will recognize it, but the 'sitting in the rain under the lamp post' part is lifted from the play referenced in this story, The Red Coat, by John Patrick Shanley. It's a real play, it really is 5 pages/150 lines and it really does feature kissing between the two characters. It totally has Everlark feels...


End file.
